Perhaps An Experiment
by Cairi J
Summary: The kitchen: a perfect setting for severed body parts, tea-making and, apparently, a kiss. - J/S: John is caught unaware. Light-hearted reading, slash.


It is a rare occasion for the both of them to be in the kitchen at once, especially when it has nothing to do with severed body parts or a discussion pertaining to a current case. John will usually make dinner, or tea, and he will usually be unaccompanied while doing so. Sherlock will only venture into the kitchen when conducting experiments or when John is away and therefore unavailable to make dinner, or tea. So it is unusual, tonight, that after having made a typical sort of dinner, John is not alone in the kitchen.

"You could wash up, you know, since you're here."

"Fine."

John has been trying to clear a nice empty space next to the sink, since this was one small area that had been relatively free of Sherlock's equipment. It's going alright so far, until Sherlock begins lumping all the wet dishes onto the surface.

"You want to use them tomorrow?"

"Depends."

"Well I might, so could you dry them? You know, if it isn't such a dreadful bind for you."

"They'll dry overnight."

"Not piled up like that, they won't."

"Fine."

He sounds uptight, which is hardly new, but it is slightly odd considering he's usually _less_ grumpy after he's been fed. (Not as a rule, John notes, but still.)

"John."

"Hm?"

There's a pause.

"What?"

"Nothing; never mind."

John switches the kettle on and turns around, folding his arms and looking with slight dejection at the watery pool forming on the space he'd just cleared. And Sherlock, still wearing his sort-of-grape-coloured shirt and worryingly immaculate trousers from earlier (the only difference being that he's untucked the shirt), has a tense sort of expression on his face when he puts down the dishcloth – seeking approval.

"Sherlock, what d'you want for that? A medal?"

"Thank-you, perhaps?"

John scoffs and barges in front of him, placing the dishes back in the cupboard. "I made dinner."

"Yes."

John goes to retort, but takes a look at Sherlock's face (he did sort of make an effort) and sighs, replying with a reluctant "cheers."

Anyone who knows Sherlock Holmes would also know he always did have a slightly poor grasp of what constitutes 'personal space' - but when John's entire peripheral is suddenly filled only with Sherlock (who hasn't moved since John put the dishes away), he begins to feel ever so slightly awkward. Only a bit.

But just like that, like someone having gatecrashed a party, like an oddly-timed and very bad joke, something has happened to completely transform the atmosphere in the entire kitchen. John freezes on the spot and, before he can compute that it's Sherlock's sudden change in expression that has caused this, he is being leant towards and Sherlock is kissing him.

It's not magical, or horrible, or anything discernable for that matter (John has lost all sense of what's going on) but it lingers for a few moments, and neither mouths really open; all John feels is that it's soft and a bit tense and from this he gathers Sherlock, for once, can't have much of a clue about what he's doing.

But what John isn't doing is stopping it dead, like his brain is screaming at him to do.

And quickly again, just like that, dim light fills his vision and they have separated.

It is now that John's heart picks up pace, when his mind is able to comprehend what's just happened and absorb the sensations that still seem to linger on his skin. He feels panic but excitement, shock and yet somehow acquiescence, and his head spins with it all, rendering him speechless.

Sherlock's face goes slightly pale and he looks at the sink, seeming slightly dazed himself for a flicker of a second before he straightens up, taking in a short breath.

John can do no more than stare at the man, eyes wide, mouth half-open. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Is it because of what has happened, or because he's anticipating what Sherlock might say – _do_ – next?

When Sherlock says nothing, John feels he must - but the words fight to surface. When they do, they're barely above a whisper and aren't particularly smart. "…Sherlock what… what did you do?"

Sherlock lowers his brow, brazen composure settling on that angular face once more. "I kissed you."

_I bloody know that, _John would've said, had he been able. But nothing more would come out.

Sherlock raises his head, hands on the counter, still facing the wall. "Before you ask, John, yes it was perhaps a kind of experiment and no I hadn't expected you to be any less than shocked – would've been just as content with outrage – and you already assume I'm going to list all the physical clues as to how you might've received that kiss, such as the sweat forming on your brow or your dilated pupils, but those could all be involuntary responses to general shock and therefore a little superficial; not all that telling… No, instead I'll give you a prediction: you're going to spin a dull string of reasons as to why you're _not gay _and couldn't possibly have enjoyed it; swiftly moving onto an equally tedious explanation as to why kissing me could potentially jeopardise the type of companionship you thus far have held very closely and that I'd admit is also something of personal importance to me, however I'd argue that it's also something you may or may not have been ever so slightly curious abou-"

Sherlock's deep monotone is silenced, because this time it is John who kisses him. This time, without doubt in his head nor will to listen to any more of that bad cover-up spiel (he can tell one of those from a mile off; he knows Sherlock too well), John has bunched a hand around purpley material and pulled his companion down through the four inches' height difference between them and back into a very, very different kiss.

This one turns the kitchen's previously flat air electric, forces Sherlock to respond – and he does, slightly fumbling at first but instinct must be winning over because John can feel _everything_, and it's bizarrely delightful, desperate, incredible.

John could be thinking about a lot of things; for instance how _alright_ perhaps he would've brought up those exact points of concern and _yes_ he had wondered but _no_, he hadn't expected either of them to actually make an advance. He could also retort that _honestly_, he _isn't_ into men – and this is true as a rule but since there's always an exception to prove a rule, John's into Sherlock and Sherlock is, incidentally, a man and John's now quite sure Sherlock is the _only_ man for whom he'd bend his generally heterosexual tendencies.

However, John has not the time nor the concern for these thoughts: once he's realised how soft and warm it is when their mouths open for each other, he becomes aware now only of the _sensations_; of the long fingers clasping around his lower face and the pressure of being pinned between the counter and Sherlock's tall figure. He rakes his hands through dark curls of hair and breaks away only when he loses his balance and his heart skips a beat – he's been grabbed beneath the arse and hoisted rather clumsily onto the counter, sending something clattering to the floor and knocking something else over trying to steady himself.

"Watch-"

"Sorry."

"I'm nearly in the bloody sink…"

He's steadied and pulled forward immediately, legs astride Sherlock's waist, lost again in a similar embrace to the last – only perhaps slightly less frantic; the depth of it all sets in and they slow to savour it – _really_ savour it – and this sensation is so new it encourages a shiver through the length of John's spine. There is truly no turning back now, not when something's lying smashed on the floor and there's dishwater soaking through the seat of his trousers and he's _still_, without guilt or second thought, passionately kissing his flatmate.

His friend.

His…

"Sherlock?"

"Hmngh."

It's something between a grunt and an acknowledgment.

"I'm sitting in water."

Sherlock's breath is hot against his neck.

"Oh," he says.

And his eyes meet John's, razor blue in the low light that's sitting warmly on the angles of his face, and John cannot stop looking at him. Quite simply, he's remarkable and this just _works_.

Sherlock pauses. "Shall we go to my - "

"Yep."


End file.
